


Regnum et Potestas et Gloria (the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory)

by Kyele



Series: the greatest of these [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Get Together, M/M, the hunting lodge fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An assassination attempt on Louis XIII, a ghost from Treville's past, and three days in a run-down hunting lodge conspire for a result Richelieu could never have anticipated.</p>
<p>(Or, why Richelieu changed his mind about having a certain obstinate Captain of the Musketeers discreetly killed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The get-together fic! Woohoo!
> 
> Set approximately five years before the end of Season One. Assumes Athos, Porthos and Aramis are all already Musketeers.

Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, Cardinal, Duke and Chief Minister of his most Christian Majesty Louis XIII of France, has a problem.

By itself, this isn’t particularly noteworthy. Richelieu has sworn to uphold the teachings of the Church and safeguard the power of the throne, in consequence of which he has assumed responsibility for quite a number of problems. The King he hopes to make the center of the most powerful monarchy in Europe is a petulant child. The squabbling regions he intends to forge into a unified nation refuse to be governed. The armies necessary to maintain France’s military dominance cannot be funded by the bankrupt treasury. These are problems indeed. But these are problems he has chosen to undertake. They are not the ones that currently concern him.

It’s a problem at once smaller and larger that is currently occupying his attention. It can be expressed in a single name: Jean Armand du Peyrer de Treville. Who has lately, after a youth spent trailing around as a member of then-Prince Louis’ entourage and a young adulthood covering himself with glory on campaign, received the appointment of Captain of the King’s Musketeers.

In which capacity he has managed, through a series of maneuvers that are either those of a genius or a fool blessed by the Lord, to confound Richelieu’s own plans a full half-dozen times. Given that Treville has only occupied the position for a year, Richelieu thinks he can be forgiven for the headache that the mere sight or mention of the man now engenders.

“Perhaps he is a trial sent from God to plague me,” Richelieu mutters to himself, seriously entertaining the notion.

The situation is intolerable. Six times now Richelieu’s carefully laid plans have been disrupted. The first time might have been an accident. The second, a coincidence. The third, the will of God. But the fourth through sixth times leave no doubt that Treville has, for whatever reason, determined to set himself against the Cardinal. Treville’s Musketeers take every opportunity to waylay, distract, or outright fight Richelieu’s Red Guards. If Richelieu suggests a course of action to his Majesty, Treville is sure to have three reasons ready why another course would be superior. When Richelieu is called to a private conference with the King, Treville remains, citing the King’s safety.

Richelieu has made several attempts to explain matters to Treville. Reason, emotion, and delicately suggested bribery have all failed. Treville seems equally immune to the prospect of France’s future glory and Treville’s own personal advancement. As far as Richelieu can tell, he wishes for things in France to remain exactly as they are – _in saecula saeculorum_ , amen.

“If this continues,” Richelieu sighs aloud to his empty room, “I’m going to have to have him killed.”

The latest campaign waged against him by Treville has been a long-running one that has recently borne great fruit. The Musketeers have been, since their inception, respected as an elite regiment among his Majesty’s army. Deservedly so. But Treville has elevated them. From first among equals they have become, somehow, the King’s personal regiment. They have slowly assumed responsibility for the day-to-day guardianship of his Majesty. And as they have grown in renown, they, like the Red Guards, have become a popular choice for the sons of noblemen who favor military service. A young Duke-in-waiting recently came to Paris, and, astonishingly, accepted a lieutenancy in the Musketeers over one in the Red Guards.

Richelieu is supposed to be dealing with _affaires d’état._ Instead he is alone in his office at the Palais-Cardinal, staring broodingly over a desk laden with papers vital to the security of France, and driving himself to distraction over _one man._

It’s almost a relief when a knock sounds on the door.

“Enter,” he calls, setting aside the sheaf of papers he has been holding, sightlessly, for ten minutes.

“Your Eminence,” the guard on duty says. It’s Bernajoux, a promising young lieutenant, second son of one of France’s great families. “Guardsman Jussac just came from the Louvre. He says the King is in quite a taking. Something to do with the Queen.”

Richelieu rises immediately, all thoughts of the Musketeers forgotten. Keeping Louis in charity with Anne is nearly a full-time job in and of itself. An essential one, if France is ever to have an heir.

He’d better go at once. And he’d better have backup.

“Come with me,” Richelieu directs Bernajoux. “And gather up the guard on duty. Just in case.”

* * *

Richelieu owns several carriages, but within the environs of Paris it’s faster to ride. Accordingly he and his Guards – five, all told – make for the stables. Within minutes, they are en route.

He arrives at the Louvre to find the household in an uproar. A passing footman whose son is an abbe steps aside with Jussac; shortly thereafter, Richelieu knows all. The King had taken it into his head this morning to go hunting and had attempted to prevail upon the Queen to go with him. She had pled indisposition. In one of those mercurial changes of temper to which the King is so unfortunately prone, he had flashed into a rage. Accusing the Queen of playing sick to spite him, he’d whipped a small hunting party together and is riding out at almost the exact moment the Cardinal rides in.

“But surely, your Majesty, you are not leaving this moment?” the Cardinal tries, casting his gaze over the motely assembly. He sees only two other noblemen, both youths, no huntsman, and three pack animals. It’s a shockingly small assembly for the King of France.

“If I wished it I would,” Louis snaps back. “No matter what that woman has to say!”

“Of course,” Richelieu soothes, thinking quickly. “I only asked, your Majesty, because I wished to accompany you. You know how I love hunting.”

“Oh.” Louis looks slightly abashed. “Yes, I see. Well. You are quite welcome to join me, of course, Cardinal.”

“But I fear I cannot,” Richelieu says regretfully. “You are prepared to leave, and I am not.” He gestures to himself, still in ecclesiastical robes, and to his complete lack of any hunting equipment.

“That’s no matter,” Louis says, sounding slightly more cheerful. “Ride out with me now, and send one of your guardsmen back for your gear. They’ll catch up in plenty of time.”

“But you will not have been supplied for so many,” Richelieu replies.

“Oh, Treville is taking care of _that_ ,” Louis says airily. “I sent him off – see, here he comes now.”

Richelieu dances his horse sideways and looks back at the gate. A small party of Musketeers are riding through. Behind them come a small convoy of baggage horses. And in their lead, of course, the Comte de Treville himself.

The King is watching. Richelieu inclines his head. Treville does the same.

“All is in readiness, your Majesty,” Treville announces. “Just as you commanded.”

Richelieu keeps his face bland. He does _not_ shout at Treville and demand to know exactly what the man is thinking, to endorse this rashness on the King’s part. The King must not be allowed to throw temper tantrums like a willful child and run away from Paris. He must stay put, and learn to live with his wife, and beget heirs upon her.

“There, you see, Cardinal?” the King smiles. “Plenty for everyone. Right, Treville?”

Richelieu has the satisfaction of seeing Treville blink in surprise. “I confess I had not calculated for his Eminence,” the man says after a moment.

“Oh.” Louis frowns, momentarily balked. Then his gaze clears. “Well then. Captain, you’ll leave some of your men behind, and Cardinal, you’ll do the same. Let’s see, Cardinal, there are five of you? Then you’ll leave behind two men, and Treville will do the same. Fair is fair, you know, and a King must be fair.”

Treville and Richelieu exchange a quick glance. For once, they appear to be in complete agreement: neither of them like this proposal.

“But your Majesty,” Richelieu ventures. “Who should have the disappointment of being turned away from your hunting party?”

“Ah, that’s a point, Cardinal.” The King nods. “But we won’t leave them behind. They’ll gather additional supplies and your hunting gear, and catch up to us on the road. Or at the lodge.”

“I collect that your Majesty is planning an extended stay?” Richelieu says cautiously, choosing to focus on the last part of that wholly ridiculous statement first.

“Perhaps a week,” Louis says.

Richelieu does not remind Louis that he has responsibilities and cannot simply go haring off for a week to the countryside. He wants to, but he has learned from bitter experience that that does not work.

“Your Majesty – ” Treville begins, having obviously not yet arrived at that conclusion.

“Excellent,” Richelieu cuts in. While it would be gratifying to watch Treville try and fail to talk the King out of his foolishness, it would prove too troublesome in the long run. The more Louis gets his back up now, the longer it will take to chivvy him back to Paris. As much as Richelieu wishes it could be otherwise, the path of wisdom here is to give in gracefully.

Richelieu turns to his own guards before Treville can attempt to retake the conversational reins. “Jussac, Bicarat, go back to the Palais-Cardinal. Prepare hunting equipment, another troop of Guardsmen, and supplies for a week. Work with the Musketeers – Captain Treville, which of your men will you be dispatching?” Richelieu turns back to the Musketeer, one eyebrow arched, expectant.

Treville is gritting his teeth. His gaze flicks between Richelieu and the King. “Aramis and Porthos will have the pleasure of coordinating with your guards,” he says at last, obviously reluctant.

“Splendid!” the King proclaims. “Then let us depart, and find something to do that isn’t so tedious as being here.”

* * *

In addition to his mad notion of devoting a week to hunting, the King has apparently chosen to spend the time at one of his more remote lodges. Richelieu thinks longingly of the lodge favored by his father Henry IV, conveniently located a mere few hours’ ride from Paris. At such a distance, messengers could ride back and forth within a single day, and the King would be able to attend to pressing affairs.

Louis doesn’t like being so close to Paris. And so his father’s favorite lodge is allowed to fall into disrepair, while Louis will spend a full day on the road before reaching his destination.

At least it gives Richelieu plenty of time to converse with each member of the King’s train. He spends the bulk of his time with the King, of course, but manages to drop a word into the ear of each of his Guards, who will keep their eyes and ears open for opportunities. The Musketeers he passes over entirely – they will not listen to a word he says – except for their leader. Richelieu would gladly skip him as well, but it will be impossible to have the man discreetly killed until they return to Paris, so it behooves them to play nice for the next week.

“Cardinal Richelieu,” Treville says when Richelieu allows his horse to drop back next to the Captain’s. “Lovely week for hunting, isn’t it?”

Richelieu knows when he’s being baited. “All weeks are lovely for hunting, when one wishes to be away from one’s duties,” he says tartly.

“Why, Cardinal, I would have thought you’d approve. Aren’t you the one who’s always trying to get the King and Queen on better terms?”

“I fail to see how a week apart from her will improve their marital harmony.”

“That goes to show you’ve never been much around women,” Treville counters. “To be expected, I suppose, in a man of your position.”

Richelieu does _not_ grind his teeth. There is simply no point in rising to this new bait. Treville knows perfectly well he’s had his mistresses, and will again, if only to maintain appearances. Position or no position, to be completely chaste would arouse the wrong kind of interest. And he’d venture to say, that with his careful studies, he’s better at understanding and manipulating women than many men who actually desire them.

None of which he can say out loud. “Perhaps,” Richelieu says instead, “you will deign to enlighten me.”

“The King has been out of sorts with the Queen for a month,” Treville says, as if Richelieu might have somehow been unaware of that. “Little things, but they add up. Women don’t forget. Neither do men, if it comes to that. Today’s explosion has been building for a while. They needed to get it out and clear the air. And now they need to spend some time away from each other. Long enough to forget why they’re mad and start missing each other a bit. A week ought to just about do it.”

“But not _this_ week!”

Treville stares. “Why not?”

Richelieu, through a great strength of will, holds his voice down from a scream. “Because this is the week of the Queen’s fertility, you fool,” he hisses.

“What? How do you – you _track_ that?” Treville looks shocked.

“I will track anything that might get France its long-awaited heir.”

“Perhaps I was hasty,” Treville says after a moment. “Perhaps this morning was not the _best_ morning to provoke a quarrel.”

“You provoked – !”

“It seemed like the best thing to do,” Treville says, tilting his chin up defiantly.

Richelieu does _not_ sputter. He glowers, instead, as balefully as he knows how.

“Well, it’s done now,” Treville sighs. “Better luck next month, all right?”

Richelieu cannot summon up the will to respond civilly. He simply tightens his grip on his reins, and his horse steps out ahead of Treville’s.

Treville actually _provoked_ this quarrel. Intolerable. Richelieu has been patient too long. It is time to take final action.

In his mind, he’s already writing his orders to Milady. Dead men are, after all, her specialty.

* * *

The sun is well past its zenith when their company breaks for luncheon. Baskets are unpacked, wine passed around. With so few people comprising their group, the King displays the better side of his nature, sitting down on the grass with the rest of them – albeit with the provision of a saddle-blanket between him and the ground – and encouraging the men to easy conversation. The more ribald tales that would usually attend such a gathering are notable in their absence, as are any of a political nature, but still it is well done of the King.

“We’re not far from the lodge now, are we, Treville?” the King remarks happily as the baskets are packed away and the company remounts.

“Maybe an hour, your Majesty.”

“Excellent, excellent. We shall arrive in plenty of time, settle in tonight, and see if we can’t start a stag in the morning.”

“Begging your Majesty’s pardon,” a strange voice says, “but I think you ought to reconsider those plans.”

The effect of this intrusion is instant. Richelieu stiffens in his saddle. The King swivels in his, trying to find the source of the voice. Everyone mounted – about half their company – forms up immediately around Louis. The remaining men scramble onto their horses.

From a dense crop of trees ahead, a group of men trots into view. They’re armed and armored, their weapons and gear a notch or three above garden-variety brigandry. Richelieu evaluates them: at least twenty, and probably more in the trees. Their own company numbers maybe a dozen. Fine odds against brigands, but these men have the bearing of soldiers.

The leader is a tall man, about the king’s age and build, and rather better dressed than the rest. He too wouldn’t be out of place in a professional regiment – in fact, he has the bearing of an officer. And there’s something familiar about his face. Richelieu squints, trying to remember.

Meanwhile, the leader smiles and speaks again. “It’s just that I don’t think your Majesty is going to reach his hunting-lodge,” he says. “At least, not alive.”

“State your business,” Treville says tersely.

“Now, now,” the strange man says. He produces a musket and points it at the Captain. “Is that any way to greet your old friend?”

Treville squints, then swears. “Gasteau?”

The man – Gasteau – gives a mounted bow. “At your service.” He shifts his gaze to the king. “Your Majesty is to be commended for the quality of his servants.”

Through an accident of positioning, Richelieu is not immediately visible to the group blocking the road. He’s screened by several Musketeers. He takes advantage of his position to scan the tree line, scoping out the situation. The woods here are not dense. It is easy to spot the scouts creeping around in an attempt to encircle them, pen them in.

He leans forward slightly and taps Treville’s horse’s hindquarter three times: an old soldier’s signal. The well-trained charger whinnies and steps, conveying the message to its rider.

“Do you know this man, Treville?” the King is asking.

“Passingly, your Majesty,” Treville says tightly. “I was not aware he was still in France.”

“Now why should I leave? Best country in the world,” Gasteau replies. Richelieu cocks his head slightly, listening. There’s something off about the way Gasteau is forming his vowels. He’s making a great effort to sound like a man of consequence, but there’s an underlying dissonance, like a cruder accent trying to break free.

Richelieu likes nothing about this. He very much doubts Gasteau’s earlier warning about Louis reaching his destination alive had been a friendly caution about bandits farther ahead. This whole situation is one spark away from an explosion.

He casts his gaze about quickly. Next to him, one of the Musketeers’ horses has the baskets from their impromptu meal still ajar. A half-empty bottle of wine pokes out of the flap. He seizes it, using the shifting horseflesh to cover his movements as he fumbles for his handkerchief and the small vial of blessed oil he keeps on his person.

“Well, I’m pleased you think so,” Louis says. “Now stand aside. I’m hoping to reach my destination by dusk.”

Striking a spark on horseback is no easy matter. Richelieu wants to swear; doesn’t dare. Prayer, at least, is just as effective when silent. _Pater noster, qui es in caelis…_

“I don’t think so.” Gasteau’s tone is suddenly hard. “I’m afraid this will be it for you, your Majesty.”

Gasteau reaches for his musket.

Treville shouts.

And Richelieu throws.

As improvised explosives go, it’s not very impressive, really. Nothing to the ones used in a real campaign. But in a small forest glade, with a number of horses packed very close together, it does all that could be wished.

Horses panic and stampede. Gasteau’s men curse. Several musket-balls are fired – mostly wide, thank God, though one of Treville’s Musketeers cries out hoarsely as scarlet blooms on his shoulder.

Treville’s men return fire once. Then Treville seizes the reins of the King’s horse and gathers up the rest of his company with a hoarse shout, turning their heads back towards Paris. Every moment that passes is distance gained. Every moment could be the moment Gasteau’s forces recover themselves and launch a pursuit.

The chase is on. A second handful of shots are fired at their retreating backs before they’re quite out of range – that’s worrying, given what it implies for Gasteau’s men’s reload speed. But it’s only a few shots, nowhere near a volley. A quick look back reveals that most of Gasteau’s men are still milling about in disarray. Several horses are loose, riderless. There appear to be fewer of them than before, indicating that some of the horses may have bolted. That’s encouraging. The longer it takes Gasteau to get his men together, the more room they’ll have to maneuver.

They go at a hard gallop for perhaps fifteen minutes, Guards and Musketeers bunched tight around the King. For the latter ten there are no new signs of pursuit. With the head start, the King’s party seems to have lost them, though by the way the soldiers are looking over their shoulders, they all realize it won’t last.

At Treville’s gesture, they draw rein in a thicket of trees, the densest cover for miles. Not for the first time Richelieu curses the thinness of the woods around Paris.

Athos, Treville’s second, is scanning the horizon. “There are scouts out there,” he says. “They seem to have decided not to attack until the main body catches up with them, but they’re marking our every move.”

“We need a defensible position,” Bernajoux says. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s agreeing with a member of Treville’s Musketeers.

“Gasteau’s planned this well,” Treville says grimly. “If we go forward we’ll be cut to pieces. But there’s nothing behind us closer than Paris.”

He doesn’t say that they’ll never make Paris. He doesn’t have to. They all know it.

But it seems there are still some things Treville doesn’t know. “Not true,” Richelieu says. “Henry IV kept a hunting-lodge. Perhaps two hours’ ride.” He points the direction.

“Two hours?” Treville purses his lips, shading his eyes to look up at the setting sun.

“It will be close,” Richelieu agrees, “but we haven’t lost any of the horses, thank God.”

Though – he spares a glance at the Musketeer who caught the ball. Cahusac has his horse alongside the young man and is winding a roll of bandage around the wound. The Musketeer is pale, but seems alert.

Cahusac glances up and sees Richelieu – and Treville – watching him. “This’ll do to ride on,” he says, “though not to fight with, until we can get a needle and thread.” Beside Cahusac, the Musketeer nods, though he’s sweating visibly.

“It’s our best chance,” Treville says finally. He gestures orders to the soldiers, Musketeers and Guards alike. Richelieu’s men flick him quick, questioning glances. Richelieu nods. Until the King is safe, petty distinctions of uniform must be suspended.

“Your Majesty,” Treville is saying to the King. “His Eminence has informed me of an old hunting-lodge of your father’s, perhaps two hours away. If we can gain it by nightfall, we can hold it against this band of brigands until reinforcements arrive from Paris.”

The King nods. “At your direction, Captain Treville,” he says. “I am relying upon you.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Treville runs his gaze over their mixed company. “This lodge – how far is it from Paris?”

“Perhaps a morning’s ride,” Richelieu answers.

“A day’s ride from here back to Paris, a day to gather troops, a morning to ride out. Say three days,” Treville murmurs.

“Then we don’t need all these supplies, and pack-horses are slow,” Bernajoux says. “Turn some of them loose.”

“And give them to our enemies?” Athos disagrees.

“We must assume they’re well supplied already,” Treville says. “A few additional provisions won’t make a difference. You two, turn some of the animals loose.”

“Who are you going to dispatch to Paris?” Cahusac asks, while the others get to it.

“The two fastest,” Treville says. “Unless they’re also the two deadliest. We’ll need the best swords here.”

“I’ll go,” Cahusac volunteers.

“You forget I’ve seen you fence,” Treville says. “You’re staying.” He scans the troop. “Besson and Cazal will go. Take nothing with you but your swords and your muskets.”

The two Musketeers so named immediately wheel their horses around, untying saddlebags and letting them fall.

“Wait until we move out,” Richelieu advises. “Let it seem as if we became separated in our flight. They’ll still try to follow both groups, but it may give your men a bit of an advantage if Gasteau doesn’t realize they’re breaking for Paris.”

“Right,” Treville agrees. “Cardinal, we’ll want you to lead the way. Does anyone else know where we’re going – just in case?”

“I’ve been there,” Athos says quietly.

Richelieu glances at him speculatively. The Musketeer meets the Cardinal’s gaze with all outward calm.

“You behind the Cardinal, then,” Treville orders. “If anything happens to him, keep going.”

Richelieu raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, Cardinal,” Treville says with a grin. “I’ll catch you myself.”

He gathers up the guards and the King with a wave of his hand, and with a shout, the entire company lurches into motion.

As Richelieu urges his horse onwards into the lead, he is stretching his mind to recall the exact path to the hunting lodge. He is contending with the prickling of his spine from the eyes of the scouts still watching them. He is studiously not turning his head as Besson and Cazal split off from the main group, doing their best to appear frightened and undisciplined. In the situation they find themselves, these concerns should be enough, more than enough, to keep his mind occupied.

And yet he still finds himself distracted. In his mind’s eye he sees again the sudden, daredevil smile that had briefly illuminated Treville’s face. The Captain is usually so stolid and boring; Richelieu actually isn’t sure if the man has ever smiled in his presence. Not a real, genuine smile. The polite kind hardly counts.

It changes his face amazingly. For that one, brief instant, when he’d smiled, Richelieu had been struck with the realization that Treville is shockingly handsome.

It’s because they’re in danger, the Cardinal decides, he’s thinking anything of the sort. He ignores the fact that this is far from the first time his life had been threatened, and he’s never before found himself thinking that foolish, obstructionist soldiers are at all attractive. And he puts the smile out of his mind. It’s just the adrenaline.

That decided, Richelieu bends his body low against his horse and his mind to the task at hand. Together with a dozen swords and the King of France he gallops for the hunting lodge – and safety.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a close-run thing, but they make the lodge before dark, and before the main body of their pursuers can overtake them. This Gasteau must not be a very experienced campaigner, though he claims to have been a soldier. He had waited a full hour to commit his forces, contenting himself meanwhile with having his scouts keep pace, before deciding that the King was not merely fleeing back towards Paris to be overtaken at Gasteau’s leisure. By the time Gasteau had realized the need to attack right away, the King’s group had put enough distance behind them that they were not subjected to more than a few musket balls whizzing by, nearly spent, before they went through the lodge’s gates and barred them.

“Two of you take the King farther inside,” Treville cries out the instant they draw rein. “You Guardsmen, walk the perimeter; you three Musketeers, sweep the lodge. The rest of you secure the provisions and stable the horses. Cardinal, with me.”

It’s all delivered in a voice of command, and Richelieu is amused, in spite of himself, to see how rapidly everyone snaps to attention. His own Guardsmen are in motion at once, not even considering that the man from whom they’re taking orders wears a Musketeer’s uniform while their own nominal commander sits his horse not three paces away. But it is an unusual situation, and Richelieu has already effectively placed his men at Treville’s disposal. There are too few of them for multiple heads to command.

Even the King, Richelieu sees, is allowing himself to be hustled inside without a murmur. For his own part, he dismounts calmly, allowing his horse to be led away, and turns expectantly towards Treville.

“You summoned me, Monsieur le Capitan?”

Treville’s lip is twisted, as if he’s tasted something sour. “Yes, and that’s exactly why,” he says. “I need to know that you’re not going to interfere with my duty, Cardinal.”

“So long as you understand that your duty is to keep the King alive – not in the slightest.”

“You’ll put your men under my command?”

“I’ve already done so,” Richelieu replies, gesturing at the disappearing backs of Bernajoux, Cahusac and Boisrenard, the three Guardsmen who had ridden out of Paris with Richelieu.

“And yourself?” Treville demands.

“What about me?”

“Will you place yourself at my disposal?”

“Insofar as it concerns the survival of the King, of course.”

Treville shakes his head in disgust. “This isn’t the time to chop logic.”

“On the contrary,” Richelieu disagrees. “I know what you’re asking, Treville. Be assured, I will not contest your leadership of the military side of affairs. In return, I must ask you to do me the courtesy of allowing me to attend to the political side of this matter without interference.”

“Your politics can wait,” Treville says with exasperation. “This is an attempted assassination!”

“I have never known an assassin without a political motive,” Richelieu retorts. “No one without ambition attempts to murder a king.”

Treville blinks, raising both eyebrows. After a moment, he says, “Perhaps you’re right.”

“You attend to the King’s personal safety. I shall attend to France’s. Is it agreed?”

Treville raises a finger. “Your word, that you will defer to me where the King’s safety is concerned.”

“Given. And _your_ word, my dear Treville, that you will defer to _me_ in matters of national security.”

“Done,” Treville says.

They exchange nods.

“I wonder, can I trust you?” Treville murmurs, a flicker of that daredevil grin playing around his lips.

“If you don’t think you can, why ask for my word?” Richelieu replies in kind.

“I must think it’s worth something, then. You’d better prove me right.”

A challenge. Transparent in its motives, but a challenge nonetheless. Though why Treville would think Richelieu has anything to prove to him beggars the imagination.

“Let’s get inside,” Richelieu says, choosing to set that aside. “We’re going to need some kind of a plan.”

* * *

By the time Treville has checked on the horses, tallied the supplies, and posted guards, full dark has fallen. By mutual accord, they all regroup inside the old King’s study. It’s set back from the walls, giving it decent protection, but opens directly on the main hallway leading from the gates. For the time being, it’s their war-room.

“How many men have we?” the King is asking fretfully, pacing back and forth.

“A dozen,” Treville says. “Eight Musketeers and four Guardsmen.”

“Four?” the King asks, gaze flickering between Bernajoux, Cahusac and Boisrenard, who are all currently ranged around the room.

“I believe the Captain does me the honor of counting me among the group,” Richelieu explains. It’s well enough done – he’s familiar with the arts of war, and he will certainly fight in the King’s name. Somewhat obvious as flattery, but Treville may simply be being practical. They’re shorthanded as it is.

“And I count myself as well,” Treville says. Richelieu scans the small band of Musketeers. The only one he recognizes is Athos. The wounded young man is not present, though if Treville counts the lad as one of his eight, the injury must not be serious.

“No one got an exact count,” Athos says, “but there must be at least thirty of Gasteau’s men.”

“We’re relatively well protected here,” Treville says. “The lodge isn’t too badly out of repair. They won’t be able to break down the walls easily, so they’ll have to come at us from a single point.”

“Unless he can work his men around us and ambush us from all sides.” Richelieu bites his lip. “If only we knew the lay of the land!”

“Here,” Treville says unexpectedly. “Laflèche, clear that desk.” One of the Musketeers steps forward at his command. He pulls out a drawer of the old king’s desk, then sweeps his arm, jumbling detritus, rotting parchments and broken inkstands pell-mell into the drawer. Richelieu opens his mouth in automatic protest, then shuts it again. There are far more important matters at stake.

Treville is opening the clasps of the case he has slung over his back. From it he pulls a large sheet and spreads it over the table. A map.

A quick glance at the contents of the case show it to be full of similarly sized parchments. More maps, no doubt. Nearly a dozen of them. Enough for Paris and all of its surrounding environs.

“Is that what you were looking for, Cardinal?” the Musketeer asks sweetly.

Richelieu favors him with a nod. “Monsieur le Capitan, I am impressed.” It’s the truth. The map-case is obviously light, yet it must be sturdy, for it has been bouncing next to Treville’s saddlebags all day. He has it on him, despite this being a simple, low-risk, last-minute trip. That shows preparation and foresight.

The question is, where has this come from? Treville had showed no signs of such intelligence while in Paris. Richelieu sets that aside to ponder later. If Treville has the ability to be brought to understand how matters properly stand at court, perhaps Richelieu will be able to avoid the mess of having him killed. It bears considering. But for the moment the first consideration is to escape with all of their skins intact.

“The ridgeline is our best protection,” Treville is saying, studying the map. Richelieu recalls his own attention and directs it appropriately. “He won’t be able to encircle us without more men than I think he has.”

“We don’t know how many men he has,” the King says petulantly.

“No, your Majesty, but he must have less than a company,” Richelieu steps in. “Otherwise he would be unable to remain concealed in the forest. It is not dense, as your Majesty will have observed.”

“If he doesn’t have enough men to take the ridgeline, his other direct option is a frontal assault,” Treville says. “He’ll do it if he has to, but he hasn’t already, which means he doesn’t want to. He’ll try a sortie tonight. We ought to be able to repel it; I doubt he’ll commit his full force. That buys us another twelve hours. Tomorrow we can send out scouts and try to get a better sense of what we’re up against.”

“An excellent plan,” Richelieu endorses.

The king’s eyes go between them both. “Well, if both of my advisors agree, it must be a very good plan indeed,” he says, visibly relaxing. “And… what shall I do?”

Richelieu and Treville exchange glances. “You have the most important job of all,” Richelieu says. “Morale. Captain Treville will be stationing your guards at various places around the lodge. You must visit them all, talk with them, and keep their spirits up.”

“After a visit from your Majesty,” Treville adds with impressive gravity, “they’ll each fight like a dozen men.”

Louis swells slightly. “I see,” he says. “A heavy charge; but I accept it.”

“Perhaps you could begin by reassuring your hunting companions,” Richelieu suggests. “If I recall correctly, there are some elegant chambers at the heart of the lodge that would suit you admirably.”

“I shall do it,” the king decides, and rises immediately. “The rest of you, get to work.” He strides out of the room.

Everyone bows. When Richelieu straightens, Treville is already deep in conversation with Athos, heading towards the door with purpose.

“Captain Treville,” Richelieu says. “A moment?”

Treville looks at him warily. After a moment, though, he nods and turns back towards the Cardinal, sending his second in command out of the room ahead of him with a glance.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed to have a certain familiarity with the thought processes of our adversary,” Richelieu says. “Is there something I should know?”

Treville presses his lips together. “I served with him,” Treville says grudgingly. “When I was in the King’s Guards – before I was a Musketeer.”

“At least he’s not a Musketeer,” Richelieu says, thanking God for small mercies. “So you’ve had a chance to observe his tactics?”

“It was over a decade ago,” Treville says. “He’ll have changed.”

“Men do not change,” Richelieu says. “They only pretend to. Their fundamentals remain the same.”

“Christ, you’re cynical.” Treville shrugs. “But in this case, I’ll hope you’re right. Was there anything else?”

“How did he leave the King’s Guards?”

“I don’t know,” Treville says. “I was already a Musketeer; we’d lost touch… I’d heard that it was dishonorable, but I never had the details.”

“Hmm.” Richelieu tilts his head slightly, pitching his gaze towards the window, studying Treville without seeming to do so. His instinct says that there is something here Treville is not telling him. Something about this cut-and-dried little narrative of an old soldier-brother is not quite what it seems.

He’s not going to get the answer now, though. Treville’s face is perfectly bland.

“Thank you, Captain,” Richelieu says. “I appreciate the information.”

Treville’s eyebrow twitches. But he nods gracefully, and withdraws in the same way.

Richelieu stands there a moment longer. That eyebrow twitch is significant. Treville knows that Richelieu is not satisfied with his version of events. It is true that Richelieu had not exerted a great deal of effort to conceal that fact. But neither had he consciously lowered his guard. And, based on everything Richelieu had believed about Treville, that alone should have been enough.

Yet it had not.

“Curiouser and curiouser, Captain,” Richelieu murmurs to himself.

The Musketeer is more than he seems. And Richelieu is beginning to suspect that he can’t afford to wait until after their lives are secure to begin dismantling the puzzle that is Treville.

* * *

The sortie arrives within an hour of full dark, as Treville has predicted, and, as predicted, it is easily repelled. It’s almost more a feint than an actual attempt, and Richelieu worries about a second attack coming from an unexpected direction. Treville assures him that that won’t be the case.

“He’s just conservative,” he explains, overseeing the redistribution of balls and powder among the guard-posts he’s established.

“He’d make a very poor politician, then,” Richelieu replies, more for the sake of saying something than because it needs to be said.

Treville barks a short laugh. “A poor general, too,” he agrees.

Night marches on towards day. As promised, there is no second attack. When the cock crows, though, a single man comes out of the woods. He trots his horse up to just shy of musket-shot. Moving slowly, he raises one arm, displaying a rolled-up parchment. He leaves it visible long enough for every man in the hunting lodge to see. Then he throws it in their direction. It’s a good toss; the parchment lands on the path leading up to the main gates, several dozen paces away. Then the man wheels his horse around and vanishes back among the trees. The entire time, he hasn’t made a single sound.

A short argument within the lodge results in Bernajoux retrieving the parchment while Cahusac and Athos cover him. He regains the gates without incident, handing the parchment over to Richelieu. Treville glares.

“Cardinal – ”

Richelieu has already broken the seal and unrolled it. “Gasteau desires a parley,” he reports, eyebrows rising. “He desires you, Captain Treville, to ride out to meet him – at the hour past noon – to discuss his terms.”

“His _terms?_ ” Treville hisses, snatching the paper from Richelieu and skimming it. He shakes his head in disgust. “He can’t seriously think there will be terms.”

“Obviously he does,” Richelieu says. “We should find out what they are.”

“What?” Treville’s head snaps up. “First of all – there will be no terms, so what does it matter? Second, there is no _we_. The letter does not mention – ”

“Don’t be a fool,” Richelieu cuts him off. “Reject his overture, and he may attack today. Agree to meet him in the afternoon, and he has already lost most of the light. If he is as conservative as you say, that may push him into tomorrow. If we are fortunate our reinforcements may have already arrived. You do not have to agree to anything he says. Only listen.”

Treville scowls mightily. “I suppose so,” he says grudgingly. “But that doesn’t mean you are coming.”

“I need to know what he wants,” Richelieu says, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll give you a full report.”

“Be reasonable, Treville. The tone of his voice and his body language will be even more important than his specific words. I simply must know.”

“And if this is an attempt to kill me?” Treville wants to know. “I don’t like the idea of risking us both. If something happens to me – ”

“Then Monsieur Athos will guard the King admirably,” Richelieu says. “The military affairs are in your hands, Treville, and the political ones in mine. This touches upon politics. This will tell me _why_ this particular madman has embarked upon this particular piece of madness. I must go.”

He holds Treville’s gaze with his own. Richelieu has often been told that his stare is difficult to meet, especially when he is determined. But somehow he doesn’t think that the intensity of his gaze will cause Treville to relent.

Relent he does, though. “Fine,” the Captain says roughly. “Have it your way. Bernajoux, go run up a red cloth. Let Gasteau know we’re willing to talk.”

Bernajoux salutes and goes off.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Cardinal,” Treville adds, turning on his heel and striding off with Athos at his heels.

“So do I,” Richelieu murmurs, staring after him with the oddest sensation in his stomach.

* * *

Louis, predictably, is not pleased. He demands to know what he is supposed to do if this villain does for both his chief general _and_ his chief minister. Treville does not bother to suppress his glare, which proclaims as clearly as words that he agrees with the King. But he does, at least, keep his silence, which proves that he remembers his promise to defer to Richelieu in political matters. Richelieu is oddly gratified.

Without Treville working against him, it’s an easy matter to soothe the King’s objections. “Of course we will take precautions, your Majesty,” Richelieu explains in the voice of reason incarnate. “We have, in fact, come to consult with your Majesty on what exactly those should be. Your wisdom will be our guide.”

“Oh.” Louis, startled, breaks into a smile. “Well. I suppose if some of our men were watching over you, and if they were very good shots…”

In the end, they agree on two men with their rifle pieces, one at each of the front-facing windows. Treville stations Athos on the left and Bernajoux on the right. One will cover Treville, the other Richelieu. At the first sign of treachery, they will fire, which will be a warning, and the two men will immediately turn back to the lodge.

That settled, Richelieu and Treville mount their horses in silence, and ride out the same way.

It’s a hundred paces to the tree line. Far enough that their most accurate shot will have difficulty hitting Gasteau, though neither the Captain nor the Cardinal had happened to mention that to the King. If their mixed force could overcome Gasteau’s, none of them would be in this situation to begin with. Gasteau wants to tell them something; his unwillingness to kill them before he’s done so is their surety for surviving this conversation.

More interestingly, the tree line is far enough that their speech will not be overheard by even the sharpest ear from within the lodge. Once again Richelieu is hit with a nagging sense of unease. This is more than a simple assassination attempt. Something else is afoot.

As they draw closer, Richelieu sees Gasteau, just visible at the edge of the woods. Richelieu and Treville stop their horses just outside of easy sword-range. It’s close enough that they can converse at a normal volume. As a protective measure, it’s limited; Gasteau could have gunmen stationed farther back in the trees. But it’s as well to take every precaution.

Richelieu nods slightly to Gasteau, but does not speak. He’s found it’s always best to let the other person open the conversation. At his side, Treville is equally quiet.

“Good to see you again, _old friend,_ ” Gasteau drawls, addressing Treville. His eyes skitter across from the Musketeer to the Cardinal. He gives a seated, mocking bow. “Your Eminence. How condescending of you, to spend your time with a poor sinner like me.”

“Confess your sins,” the Cardinal suggests. “Turn aside from this path of evil, and I will give you God’s forgiveness.”

Gasteau leans over and spits on the ground. “ _That_ for God’s forgiveness. He turned away from me a long time ago.”

Richelieu allows his face to show nothing, but to himself, he frowns. This is an unusual reaction. He was prepared to encounter a Huguenot, but Gasteau has more the air of a lapsed Catholic.

He tries, “I promise you, there is nothing God will not forgive.”

For some reason, this makes Gasteau laugh. “You go on thinking that, Cardinal. There are those of us that know better.” He turns back towards Treville. “Isn’t that right, Treville?”

Treville is frowning. “Get to the point,” he says tightly.

“Ahh, yes, the point.” Gasteau straightens in his saddle, throwing his hands out grandiosely. “The point is – this is your opportunity to surrender.”

Richelieu’s horse dances; he calms it with a pat. “And why should we do that?”

“Why, because then I’ll let you live,” Gasteau says. “Join me. I’ll do for the King, and you can have a place in my court.”

Richelieu laughs. “You expect to murder the King and sit on his throne?”

“Why not?” Gasteau says. “Why shouldn’t I rule France?”

“Perhaps because you are not the rightful son of Henry IV,” Richelieu suggests.

“The rightful son, no,” Gasteau says. “The wrongful son, though. That’s me.”

Richelieu raises an eyebrow. A sudden chill shoots down his spine. He suddenly remembers that feeling he had had earlier, that Gasteau’s features were familiar to him…

Beside him, Treville makes a low sound of dismay. “Not this again, Gasteau.”

“I might have known you’d say that,” Gasteau hisses. “You always said that!”

“Because it’s a fool’s hope,” Treville cries. “Gasteau – ”

“Marie de’ Medici ain’t who makes someone a Bourbon,” Gasteau snarls. His voice, which up until now had been carefully controlled, fractures. The cultured accents he’d been affecting drop abruptly into the broken speech of the lower classes. “I’ve got just as much of a claim to it as Louis does.”

“If you can prove it,” Richelieu cuts in. Treville takes a sharp breath; Richelieu sends him a quelling look. _This_ is the missing piece. This is what Treville had tried to keep from him. A bastard son of Henry IV with a chip on his shoulder – this situation has the potential to turn very, very bad. Much depends on what Gasteau is about to do.

It’s with a sense of inevitability that Richelieu sees Gasteau reach into his vest pocket and produce a sheaf of papers. He doesn’t pull them out fully, just fans them, enough to show they exist. “Oh, I’ve got my proof,” he says smugly. “Along with the dirt on half the lords in Paris. And the other half don’t like Louis anyway. Once he’s dead, they’ll acclaim me. _If_ they know what’s good for ‘em.”

He laughs. It’s an ugly sound.

“I won’t let you do this.” Treville’s voice is low, desperate. “Gasteau, _please_. It’s not too late. Turn around. Ride away. Tell your men to disperse. This will only end in blood.”

Gasteau’s eyes narrow. “Of course you’d say that,” he growls. “Always following Louis around like a puppy.”

“It’s called loyalty,” Treville says tightly.

“It’s called idiocy,” Gasteau counters. “Louis was never going to give you a second look! Wasn’t I always good to you, Treville?”

Richelieu keeps his eyebrows level with a sheer act of will; they want to climb for the heavens. This is a distinctly odd angle of attack. Treville, too, is visibly flustered. It seems that the Captain’s secrets are not limited to Gasteau’s parentage. What else is there?

“His Majesty the King has given Monsieur de Treville land, title and commission,” Richelieu says, injecting his tone with condescension and disbelief. “What could _you_ possibly give him to compare to that?”

“If you only knew,” Gasteau sneered. “In fact, why shouldn’t you know? You come here preachin’ at me about God’s forgiveness. Go on, Treville. Tell him. Tell him what I done for you. Tell him why God don’t mean nothing to either of us.”

“Gasteau, please,” Treville says weakly.

 _Please?_ It is only a lifetime of diplomacy that keeps Richelieu’s jaw firmly attached to his face. Proud Treville, stubborn Treville, unexpectedly clever Treville, begging this brigand for – what? Richelieu needs to know, _must_ know. And yet, despite this being the opportune moment for one final push, Richelieu finds he cannot speak.

“What’s the matter?” Gasteau demands. “Cat got your tongue?”

Treville, too, remains silent.

“Odd. You always was always a vocal one. You should’ve heard him,” Gasteau says, turning suddenly to Richelieu. “The noises he’d make, when I’d got my cock up his arse – like music.”

Treville turns white so quickly he sways in his seat.

“’Course, sometimes I didn’t want him to be noisy,” Gasteau leers. “But that was easy to manage. Just shove my prick down his throat, and he’d shut up quick enough.” Gasteau chortles, slapping his leg suggestively, apparently on the off chance that his innuendo goes unnoticed.

Treville is stock still, frozen in the saddle. His horse dances restively. The only part of him not frozen are his eyes; they burn in horror, directed at Richelieu.

“It’s over, Treville,” Gasteau urges. “He knows now. He’ll tell them all. There’s nothing for you back with Louis.” He spits the King’s name out like it’s the worst swear imaginable. “Kill him now. Join me. And when I’m King you’ll have whatever you want.”

Richelieu’s momentary paralysis melts abruptly in the face of this sudden threat. But there seems to be no imminent attack. Treville is only staring at him, an agony of suspense painted on his face.

This, then, is the secret he had been so desperate to preserve. The secret Gasteau has counted upon to give him the upper hand. The secret that, in the wrong hands, will betray Treville to dishonor and an ugly death.

Now Richelieu knows. And, knowing, he can act.

His well-trained mind whirs into overdrive.

The first object is to remain unruffled. Gasteau has volunteered this information because he expects Richelieu to recoil in disgust. His choice of words – crude, gauche – are further calculated to inflame. Gasteau expects an immediate reaction from Richelieu, something violent, something that will convince Treville to betray Louis and side with Gasteau to save his own life.

Therefore, it is imperative for Richelieu to show no reaction. This is trivial. Richelieu has negotiated treaties with foreign monarchs; keeping his face still when faced with a blustering brigand is of no moment. It would be trivial even were Richelieu actually disgusted, which, of course, he is not. Richelieu is many things, but he has never yet been a hypocrite.

He has, however, been a fool, at least with regards to Treville. Of all of the reasons Richelieu had lately considered to explain Treville’s behavior, this had been nowhere among them. In retrospect it is obvious. Here is a man who is reserved. Who seems to neither see, hear nor speak evil. Who is everyone’s acquaintance and no one’s friend. A man who, nevertheless, consistently finds himself between Richelieu and his goals.

Richelieu and his spies had mistaken it for stupid obstinacy. The Cardinal had seen a man of stubborn principles who could not be brought to understand the way things really worked.

Now, with a simple twist of the facts, a new Captain of the King’s Musketeers emerges. This Treville is still a man of stubborn principles. But now he has a problem: a sexual preference that he must keep carefully hidden. This prevents him from taking open stands, setting himself up as a leader of a faction or a paragon of morality. If anyone were to investigate him too closely, he would be undone. Therefore he must remain aside. But his principles will not let him. He must intervene – but he cannot be known to intervene. So he conceals his true wit, and plays the fool, making it appear as if his interventions are all the matter of chance.

It is brilliant. It is the work of a master. It is worthy of admiration from Richelieu himself.

And Richelieu has no time to dwell on it now.

Richelieu pulls his attention away from the revelation of Treville’s real character and directs it towards the unexpected opportunity with which Gasteau has just provided them. Gasteau has dropped the news of Treville’s preferences like a bombshell. He is expecting Richelieu to react with disgust; he expects Treville to draw steel. Already he is beginning to be puzzled, his brow furrowing at Treville’s paralysis and Richelieu’s calm.

An entirely different reaction will throw Gasteau completely off guard.

Allowing Richelieu to achieve his original object: to extract information about Gasteau’s forces and their dispersal.

Accordingly, Richelieu says: “But my dear Treville already has whatever he wants. I make quite sure of that.” He smiles his chilliest smile. “I wonder, did he swallow for you?”

Treville chokes on air.

Gasteau dances his horse two full steps backwards in his shock. “What?” he demands. “But – you – ”

“No?” Richelieu inquires. “Dear me, that is too bad.” He gives Gasteau a pitying look. “He’s quite skilled at fellatio.”

Gasteau is turning several very interesting colors. Richelieu lets the moment draw itself out, allowing the shock to get its hooks into Gasteau, disrupt his higher reasoning. At Richelieu’s side, Treville’s eyes are drilling holes in Richelieu’s armor, but the Musketeer has the good sense to remain silent.

“Now, now, Gasteau. I’m sure a man in your position isn’t lonely,” Richelieu says. “I’m sure at least _one_ of your forty men shares your proclivities.”

“Thirty,” Gasteau mutters, shaking his head. He seems not to have even noticed his slip. “But – you – how? You – you’re a Cardinal!”

“Birds of a feather must flock together,” Richelieu returns calmly. Next to him, Treville snorts. The shocked Musketeer of a moment ago has vanished. Treville is almost lounging in the saddle, to all appearances utterly unconcerned by the conversation at hand.

It _is_ a pleasure to work with a man of wits, Richelieu thinks, appreciating how quickly Treville has grasped the situation.

Richelieu goes on, “As I’m sure you know. But – oh, I see. You’ve sent your lover off with your second group, haven’t you?” This is a guess, but a likely one, and Richelieu is rewarded with the widening of Gasteau’s eyes.

_Good. Now for one more._

“Don’t be so glum,” Richelieu encourages the man. “He’s not gone far, after all – you can sneak over later…”

Richelieu lets his voice trail off, fixing sharp eyes on Gasteau. Watching – watching – there! Gasteau’s eyes flick briefly, momentarily, to the east. The ridgeline, then. Yes, that tallies. He’ll send one group over it, then lead the other in a frontal assault. While they’re distracted the ridgeline group will take them from behind. The next best thing to being able to surround them.

Just one problem – without the element of surprise, it won’t work half so well. Which means that Richelieu’s challenge now is to send Gasteau away from this encounter without realizing how much he’s given away.

Richelieu rapidly reviews what little he knows about Gasteau and decides to launch a frontal attack of his own.

“Or you can join us,” Richelieu suggests, layering honey in his voice. He sidles his horse closer to Treville’s, mingling their personal space together and gesturing suggestively between them. “Treville’s not an easy man to forget, is he?”

Gasteau starts. “I don’t believe this,” he says shrilly, taking his horse back another step.

“Well, if you’re not interested,” the Cardinal says, sounding injured.

Gasteau is breathing hard. “I came here to give you a chance to surrender,” he says, gathering his reins up tighter. He’s getting ready to flee. “If you won’t do it – then prepare yourselves for death!” And before either Richelieu or Treville can respond, he wheels his horse and takes off like a shot.

Richelieu keeps his countenance neutral until the hoofbeats fade. Then he allows himself to relax and chuckle slightly.

“Excellent,” he says aloud. “Well, Captain, I think that was quite the success.”

“If you mean militarily,” Treville says, still staring after the departed Gasteau, “then I agree with you. He only has thirty men, and he is planning a frontal feint and a rear attack.”

“Yes, I understood him quite well,” Richelieu assures Treville.

“Well, that I can deal with,” Treville says. Then he cuts his eyes at Richelieu. “Assuming, of course, that I am allowed to deal with anything.”

Richelieu gazes absently at the empty woods. Gasteau is gone. They have the information they rode out to get. The logical thing for them to do – the thing their watching guards will expect them to do – is ride back to the hunting lodge and begin deploying their troops.

Treville makes no move to turn his horse around. Neither does Richelieu.

“Monsieur le Cardinal,” Treville says tightly. “I would appreciate being informed of your intentions.”

Richelieu raises an eyebrow. So that’s how Treville wishes to play it? Not one to let a suppurating wound fester, then. Richelieu’s respect for the man goes up another notch.

“He thought you’d change sides to protect your secret,” Richelieu says. “That’s why he requested this meeting. It was his trump card. If you turned against Louis, he’d win handily.”

“I’d rather die,” Treville says.

“That’s more or less the choice you just made,” Richelieu agrees. “That is, if one operates on the assumption that I plan to tell Louis.”

“And?” Treville turns the full intensity of his gaze on Richelieu. His eyes are flashing; there is a terrible pride on his face. “Do you?”

“You asked me for my intentions.” Richelieu holds that challenging gaze, letting Treville see his own resolve. Says, clear and concise: “I am going to hold this lodge until reinforcements arrive from Paris. And then I am going to kill every last one of them.”

Treville is silent for a moment, absorbing this. “Are there no other considerations you wish to discuss?” he demands. “That you will wish, perhaps, to raise to the king?”

“None at all,” Richelieu says, still meeting Treville’s gaze openly. “My only priority is his Majesty’s safety, which I will effect in any way necessary. _Any_ way.”

Treville considers this response. Then he nods. “We are in agreement, then.”

“Excellent,” Richelieu says, and wheels his horse around.


	3. Chapter 3

Treville is out of the saddle and barking orders before the gates are even fully closed behind them. Guardsmen and Musketeers scurry in all directions. Richelieu dismounts more slowly, watching in bemusement as Treville tosses his reins to Bernajoux and strides off with Athos at his heels.

Observed carefully, Treville is not so in control as he appears. The signs are subtle but present. The Captain is rattled. Richelieu holds his life in his hands, and he knows it.

Richelieu sighs to himself. The Captain is obviously unwilling to rely entirely on Richelieu’s discretion. Well, he’ll see soon enough Richelieu is a man of his word. He can’t worry about Treville now. He tells himself this, firmly, and sets the matter aside.

That settled, Richelieu takes himself directly to the King. Louis demands to know every detail, and it’s a challenge to share the purport of the meeting without touching on either of its key points. The twin secrets of Gasteau’s parentage and Treville’s bed partners must remain between the Captain and the Cardinal alone.

For that to happen, all of Gasteau’s men must die, of course. Richelieu has no doubt Treville will see to it. If not, Richelieu will attend to the matter. All else aside, the conversational feint Richelieu employed to distract Gasteau must equally be concealed. It’s not very likely that Gasteau will babble to his men about Richelieu’s supposed relationship with Treville – not after his reaction – but the Cardinal has no intention of taking chances. Especially not when there is, at heart, a nugget of truth to the tale.

Richelieu may not have taken Treville to his bed, but if he did, Treville would hardly be the first man to be there. It’s not a taste he’s able to indulge often, of course, but what’s the point of being the most powerful man in France if he cannot have what he truly wants, from time to time? As a youth in the regulars, he had been exposed to what really went on between some men on long campaigns. He had discovered quickly how much more he preferred it to the doxies available when they were garrisoned in towns. Later, in the seminary, living in enforced chastity, it was not of women that Richelieu dreamed. During his subsequent meteoric rise to power he had taken mistresses to satisfy the public. But his devotion to spycraft and intrigue were not solely for the benefit of France. The ability to conceal, deceive, and blackmail was first honed in the fulfillment of his own desires.

Once the King is pacified, Richelieu goes in search of Treville. The Captain’s disquiet is still on his mind. He tells himself that his own self-interest is at stake: if the Captain is distracted, looking over his shoulder for Richelieu’s betrayal, he will not be at his best defending the King. That will not do. It is Richelieu’s duty to set Treville’s mind at ease.

The problem is, Treville won’t give him an opportunity.

“He’s gone to inspect the perimeter,” Athos says blandly when Richelieu inquires of Treville’s whereabouts from him.

“He’s checking on the stores,” Bernajoux reports when Richelieu finds him on perimeter guard.

“He’s checking the horses,” Cahusac tells him from within the store-room.

What Treville actually is, Richelieu soon discovers, is avoiding him.

It’s infuriating. Treville has spent the last year turning up where he’s least wanted. Now that Richelieu actually wants the blasted man, he’s nowhere to be found. Richelieu spends the rest of the day chasing the man’s cloak-hem with nothing to show for it.

Treville appears again right before dinner with a small crowd in tow. Protection, in part, from being alone with the Cardinal. Treville gathers Richelieu up with a look and herds him into the war-room. Everyone else is already present, gathered around the map.

“Gasteau will attack tonight,” Treville says, and begins to explain his plan.

It’s simple and straightforward. The frontal attack will be a feint, so Treville has concentrated their resources at the rear. The front gates have been heavily reinforced. Two men will stay with them, shoring them up and picking off as many as they can.

“They will have orders not to actually succeed in taking the gate,” Treville explains. “Because, the moment they do, they’ll be exposed as a decoy. So they’ll allow you to hold them off. Whittle down as many as you can, but above all, your duty is to give the impression of being many different men. Let him think we’re committed forward. Fire your musket, then clatter your sword loudly. Shout an order to yourself, then shout ‘aye’ twice back. Kick the gate so it sounds like someone’s reinforcing it further. All right?”

“Yes, sir,” the two Musketeers chosen for this task chorus, looking determined and terribly young.

A further two men are to sneak out of the lodge and conceal themselves in the woods behind the ridge-line. “Wait until Gasteau’s rear force is fully committed,” Treville orders. “Then attack. Same orders as the front gate. Make yourselves appear to be as many men as possible. Make Gasteau think that you’re reinforcements come from Paris.”

“Will he believe that?” Boisrenard asks.

Richelieu calculates rapidly. “It’s possible,” he says. “If Besson and Cazal weren’t delayed, and they found a troop of men ready, and horses were available…”

“Your job is to _make_ Gasteau believe it,” Treville says. Bernajoux and Cahusac are the men told off for this particular assignment, both experienced campaigners. They both nod.

“The rest of us are for the rear,” Treville goes on. “We’ll divide up positions.”

“What about me?” Louis asks fearfully.

“I am leaving you in the capable hands of the Cardinal,” Treville says.

Richelieu sharpens his gaze on the Captain. “I could be of more use in the rear,” he says.

Treville shakes his head. “I want you with the king.”

“I am equally concerned with his Majesty, I assure you, but with our numbers so few, one man could be the difference between victory and defeat.”

“I agree with you. That’s why I want you here. If Gasteau gets past us and he only has a few men left standing, I’m sure you’ll be able to take care of them. If, however, he has more than a few men, it will no longer be swords that will win the day. You’ll have more chance of talking him out of it than fighting him to a standstill.”

“In other words, Captain Treville, you say it will be a political matter?” Richelieu smiles in spite of himself.

For an instant, it seems as if Treville will smile back. But in the end he does not. He simply says, “Yes. And those are your department.”

Richelieu lets his smile fade. “Very well,” he says.

“Good.” Treville looks around the room, holding everyone’s eyes in turn, even the King’s. “Then let’s get to it.”

* * *

Gasteau keeps them waiting. He doesn’t launch his attack until the last hour before false dawn.

If the pretender hopes to find them flagging and tired, though, he’s very much mistaken. Treville is a thorough veteran and has his men rotating through sleep shifts from the start. When the noisy, attention-getting shouts begin to ring through the woods, the last four men are roused from their bedrolls and crouching at their posts before the first torches even appear.

Richelieu tears himself away from the fortifications reluctantly. If he stays, the King will want to stay, too. It’s his duty now to keep the King and his two companions away from the battle and secure within the war-room. A frustrating job, but, he admits, a necessary one.

He distracts them all with a simple geography game and Treville’s maps. For his own part, Richelieu paces, straining his ears futilely to hear the sounds of the battle through the reinforced door and trying not to play with the hilt of his borrowed sword. He wishes for his own weapon. None of his gear ever made it to him. He’s borrowing one of the Musketeer’s swords, and that particular young man is making do with a fireplace poker as a last resort.

Half an hour passes in this exquisite torture. Then, suddenly, the volume of the battle increases. Richelieu hears the sound of pounding feet, and the shouting becomes distinctly less muffled. It must be loud indeed – this room was Henry IV’s private study, and the door is hardened against eavesdroppers, but the shouts sound nearly as loud as ordinary conversation.

He takes three steps back from the door and draws his borrowed sword.

“Cardinal?” the King starts to ask.

“Get down,” Richelieu shouts, moments before the door bursts open.

He is braced for a torrent of enemies, but only two of Gasteau’s men tumble through, both looking somewhat startled to encounter any armed resistance. Richelieu leaps to the attack, his mind distantly working. Is this part of Gasteau’s plan that Treville had not foreseen – a small force, tasked with slipping past Treville’s defenses to get to the King? Or are these simply two lucky brigands who happened to find and exploit an opening?

Irrelevant, for the moment. Richelieu fells one with a thrust through the thigh and turns his attention to the other. Freed of the need to defend from both sides, he makes more sure of the second one, taking him through the heart. He spins to attend to the downed man and discovers to his surprise that there’s no need. One of the King’s companions has snatched up a heavy piece of decorative ironwork and bashed his skull in.

“Your Majesty!” Treville shouts from the open doorway.

Richelieu spins around again, in time to see the man sneaking up behind Treville. There’s no time to think. He lunges forward, seizing Treville’s shoulder and dragging him out of the way. He parries, thrusts, and thrusts again. The assailant falls, dead.

“What’s happening?” Richelieu demands, taking another step forward to peer out the door. Treville returns the favor of a moment ago, hauling Richelieu back into the King’s room as a musket-ball whizzes by.

“They overran our position,” Treville says grimly. “We’re fighting in the halls now.”

“The front gate?”

“Abandoned. Gasteau held on the feint much less long than I expected.”

The sound of musket-fire comes again. The hallway is beginning to fill up with the dense, cordite murk of gun-smoke. It seeps into the room. The King and his companions have overturned Henry’s desk and taken cover behind it. Treville and Richelieu crouch on either side of the door, waiting.

At intervals, enemies appears out of the haze. Treville has held on to his musket, for a wonder, and the same young nobleman who bashed Richelieu’s wounded opponent’s head in proves a deft hand at reloading. Between that and their swords, they hold the doorway. For now.

It’s touch and go. Gasteau’s men are as disarranged as Treville’s; they appear in clumps, anywhere from a lone man to a band of five. The noise of battle is everywhere now, and between that and the steadily thickening smoke, they have very little warning before a fresh group attacks. They’ve done for three between them so far and repelled twice that many with more minor wounds. The problem is that they can’t drive them off very far. Each new wave of attackers is harder to fight, the old wounded being joined by new men as Gasteau’s forces begin to regroup.

Richelieu keeps expecting to see men of their own company appear and join the defense, but the only figures that emerge from the smoke are brigands. He doesn’t like to think about what that may mean.

Treville fights like the devil. Richelieu does his best to keep up, though the growing stitch in his side is growing harder to ignore. He estimates that Treville’s tactics may have done for as many as three-quarters of Gasteau’s men, including the three laid out like sandbags before them, but Gasteau has the men to lose. It only takes one man to kill a king.

“I have one comfort at least,” Treville says lightly during a break between enemy waves. He’s got a wound on his forearm from a glancing blow. It’s bleeding sluggishly; Richelieu is trying to get a better look at it, but with one eye on the corridor and the mist seeping into their little barricade, it’s hard. He doesn’t _think_ it’s too serious.

“What is that?” Richelieu asks absently, turning the arm and squinting.

“Why, that if I die alongside you, I’ll be sure to go to Heaven.”

Two more men appear out of the mist suddenly, yelling an incoherent battle-cry. Richelieu leaps up and lunges, taking one of them cleanly through the shoulder. Next to him, Treville sights and fires coolly. The previously uninjured one drops like a stone. Richelieu’s enemy falls back, one hand pressed to his wound, and is swallowed up by the smoke.

“He’ll be back,” Richelieu says philosophically, returning to cover.

“Still, that’s one more down,” Treville says, handing his musket back to be reloaded.

Richelieu nods. Then, remembering Treville’s previous statement, he gives Treville a mocking little half-bow. “It’s flattering to hear your high opinion of me. Of course, as a good Catholic, I am exceedingly modest. But I do like to think my small contributions to France will find God’s favor.”

“Oh no,” Treville says, laughing. “I don’t mean I’ll get in to Heaven on your coattails.”

They’re interrupted by Richelieu’s prophecy coming true rather ahead of schedule. It’s three men this time. Treville wounds one with his musket, then leaps forward to engage another. Richelieu meets his former adversary and makes sure of him this time with a stab to the lungs.

The third man disengages from Treville, hauling his wounded comrade back out of their line of fire. “Thank goodness they’re mercenaries and not soldiers,” Richelieu mutters. “If they were willing to actually commit to the attack…”

“Once Gasteau gets here they will.” Treville’s face is grim.

Richelieu knows his must be much the same. They’re putting a good face on it, but it will take a miracle to get them out of this.

Speaking of miracles… “What’s your plan for getting into Heaven, then?” Richelieu asks, trying to smile. It’s getting harder. The stitch in his side is afire now, and breathing has become uncommonly difficult. All that damned smoke.

Treville must appreciate the effort, though, if his smile is anything to go by. It’s the same sudden bright flash Richelieu had seen in the forest, when Treville had promised to catch Richelieu if he fell. It’s oddly compelling. There are worse sights to see, Richelieu thinks, worse comrades to have on the journey to Heaven.

“I mean,” Treville says, still grinning, “that Saint Peter will be so busy chasing you off to Hell where you belong that I’ll be able to slip in unnoticed.”

Richelieu doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t have the strength to spare, and it would just set him coughing. But he would laugh, if he could, and he thinks from the wry twist of Treville’s mouth that Treville knows it.

“Of course, I’ll have to make sure Saint Peter sees you first,” Treville goes on, obviously trying to keep Richelieu’s spirits up. “So I’ll just – ”

He breaks off, frowning.

“ – wait a moment,” he says, slowly.

Treville squints through the smoke. Then, suddenly, he stands.

Richelieu doesn’t even think. He shoots up next to Treville, reaching to grab the Captain and drag him back behind cover. But Treville has already taken two steps forward into the hallway, out of Richelieu’s reach, and brought his sword up. Richelieu follows him out of the room, furious and afraid, still reaching for him. Then he sees what Treville had seen.

“Gasteau,” he says grimly.

A figure emerges from the haze of gunpowder. How had Treville seen him? It doesn’t matter. Gasteau is limping slightly, but his grin is cocky, and he, too, has his sword out and bare.

Treville flings Richelieu a sudden, eloquent look. The Cardinal catches it and spins around. Gasteau is about to speak – probably about to offer Treville one last chance to step aside – and Louis is behind them, in the room, within earshot of whatever Gasteau might say.

The door to the room is thick and heavy. It was flung aside when the first of Gasteau’s men breached the room, but miraculously, it’s still on its hinges. Richelieu grabs it and begins to swing it closed. This room had been Henry IV’s office – he had discussed matters of state here. The door would be designed to prevent eavesdropping. Between that and the battle-sounds still coming from elsewhere in the lodge, it should be enough.

The braver of Louis’ young friends sticks his head out of cover, cautiously. “What are you doing?” he calls to Richelieu, seeing him.

“Stay down,” Richelieu calls back, “and guard the King.” With a final effort, the door is closed again. Getting it open again is going to be difficult – it had been damaged when the first of Gasteau’s men tried to storm the King’s bastion, and Richelieu has been none too gentle in closing it – but he’d rather the door be stuck closed than open anyway. He would have done it earlier if the waves of enemies had left him a chance. That done, he turns back to the tableau.

“I rather thought you’d put yourself on the other side of that,” Treville mutters to him out of the side of his mouth.

Richelieu shakes his head and ranges himself alongside the Captain of the Musketeers. “Then you don’t know me at all, Captain. I’ll finish this as I started it.”

“Touching,” Gasteau drawls, and Richelieu remembers suddenly that Treville’s isn’t the only reputation Gasteau might ruin. “Planning to die together? It must be love.”

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Treville says.

Gasteau looks between them. “Changing your tune, then?” he says. “Realizing where your bread is really buttered?” He holds out a hand, inviting.

Treville shakes his head. “You left me a long time ago, Gasteau. That was your choice, not mine.”

“You wouldn’t come with me!” Gasteau cries. “You never believed in my destiny.”

“So now what?” Treville demands. “You’ll kill me?” He takes a step forward. “I think our past merits a little more consideration than that.”

“If you’re not with me, you’re against me,” Gasteau says. He at least manages to sound regretful, but his sword doesn’t lower.

“Fight me,” Treville suggests.

Gasteau stares at him. “What do you think I’m doing?”

Richelieu turns slightly, keeping Gasteau in his peripheral vision. _What do you think_ you’re _doing?_ his look says.

 _Trust me,_ Treville’s return look implores.

“Just you and me,” he says out loud to Gasteau. “One on one. For old time’s sake. What do you say? Do me the honor of killing me yourself, if I’m going to die.”

Richelieu blinks. Then he holds his breath, watching.

Gasteau looks at Treville, a long, searching look. His gaze flicks to Richelieu, then back to Treville. He looks past Treville to the door that still stands between him and Louis; he even turns his head to count up the number of his soldiers that are massed at the other end of the hallway – perhaps half-a-dozen, counting the wounded. But every time his gaze returns to Treville, like he can’t pull it away.

“All right,” Gasteau says. His voice is rough with anger; he clears his throat impatiently. “All right. You’re right. I’ll kill you myself. I don’t want anyone else to do it.”

Richelieu takes a long look of his own. What he sees no longer surprises him. Gasteau may be mad – no one sane tries to kill a King – but this is madness of a different kind. Love.

“A duel,” Gasteau says. “A real one. A fair one. No armor. Swords only. You and I – no one else. The winner to take all.”

“All right,” Treville says.

Gasteau nods. He tosses his sword to another of his men and begins tugging at the fastenings of his armored coat, undoing it.

Treville lowers his weapon likewise, and unties his cloak-knot, pulling it loose. “Richelieu?”

“Yes,” Richelieu says, moving in close. “Well done,” he adds in an undertone, taking the bundle of Treville’s cloak as the Captain passes it to him. “If you can take Gasteau out, I may be able to pay off the rest of his men. Try to keep him from talking too much. The less he fills their ears with promises of France’s treasury the better off we’ll be.”

Treville nods, making to step forward. Richelieu grabs his arm, intending to help him off with his surcoat. It’s not strictly armor, but it’ll restrict Treville’s movement unnecessarily. But Richelieu freezes at the low, involuntary hiss of pain the Captain gives.

Richelieu glances up quickly: Gasteau hasn’t noticed. He leans closer to Treville and angles his body away from Gasteau. Let the other man assume it’s a lovers’ conference. “How bad is it?” Richelieu demands in a low voice, bending down to peer at the wound.

“Not bad,” Treville lies.

It’s the scratch Richelieu had noticed previously. Except that it’s much worse than he’d thought. The blood flow is still sluggish, but the wound isn’t merely upon the forearm, as it had first appeared. It follows the curve of Treville’s arm under the elbow and runs up his upper arm nearly to the shoulder. And the higher it gets, the deeper it becomes.

“Let me bind it up,” Richelieu says.

“No time,” Treville replies, flicking his eyes over Richelieu’s shoulder – Gasteau must already be back _en garde_. “And I don’t think I can take my surcoat off without tearing it open further. It’ll have to do.”

Richelieu opens his mouth, then shuts it again. They have no room to maneuver, and while it would be momentarily satisfying to call Treville a fool for agreeing to this while injured – the would is on his sword-arm, for God’s sake – it’s not like they are awash with alternatives.

“Be careful,” he mutters finally.

“I will,” Treville says in kind, and gently but firmly pushes Richelieu aside to step forward and assume the guard position.

Gasteau is already waiting, armor coat doffed, holding his sword easily. “If Treville’s _companion_ interferes,” he calls over his shoulder to the band of his mercenaries that have gathered at the far end of the hallway, “kill them both.” The way he says _companion_ is a slur by itself, barbed and furious.

There’s a roar from the brigands. Richelieu eyes them cautiously. Even in the brief moment he and Treville had turned away, their numbers have swelled. There may be as many as a dozen of them now. Three or four are barely standing for their injuries, but there are enough whole to kill Richelieu – and the king – handily.

And there’s still no sign of any of the King’s men. Richelieu wonders if any of them are left alive.

Then Gasteau lunges, and Richelieu has no time left for wondering about anything else.

Whatever else Gasteau may be – a conservative tactician, an assassin, a pretender to the throne – he is also a fine swordsman. Richelieu supposes it makes sense. The man believes himself to be nobility by birth, so he would hardly neglect any of the skills a gentlemen might have. And he'd spent time in the regulars, which would have honed his skills.

Treville, of course, is more skilled than this pretender could ever hope to be. The Musketeer is probably one of the first blades in France. But Treville is injured, and bleeding, and from the first Gasteau presses viciously. _He_ is rested. He’s obviously been having his men do all the work.

Treville and Gasteau go back and forth, up and down the hall. At first Gasteau seems to have the advantage. Then Treville rebounds, pressing him warmly. They exchange thrusts early. Gasteau’s is a glancing blow, laying some skin open but hardly more than that. It wouldn’t signify, except that it promptly starts bleeding, and Treville pales further. The captain’s thrust is more to the purpose; it catches Gasteau in the thigh, and leaves the assassin with a decided limp.

The cheering and hollering from Gasteau’s men at the end of the hall turns rowdy. Richelieu watches them warily, knowing that they only want an excuse to surge forward and overwhelm them both. Even if Treville wins this fight, it’s even odds whether Richelieu can assert control of the situation quickly enough. He readies his arguments in the back of his mind.

The combatants go back and forth, forth and back, both visibly tiring, neither gaining the advantage. Until –

It happens in an instant. Gasteau is pressing forward; Treville takes a step back. But he’s occupied by the sweep of Gasteau’s sword, or perhaps he’s growing dizzy from blood loss, or perhaps he simply loses his concentration for one, fatal second. He misses his step and trips over the bodies of one of the men he and Richelieu had slain, during their stand in the King’s door.

Treville falls backwards, not forward, thank God, or he’d spit himself on Gasteau’s sword and that would be the end of it right there. But the door is nearly at his back, and there’s nowhere for him to go but sideways. Through the poor effects of timing or positioning or both he knocks straight into Richelieu.

The Cardinal catches him automatically. In Richelieu’s effort to cushion the fall he ends up on the ground himself. Treville ends up sprawled in his arms like a swooning maiden out of a newspaper serial, panting, barely conscious, and with Gasteau’s sword at his throat.

“It’s over,” Gasteau says softly. He’s looking down on them both. His earlier anger seems to have momentarily deserted him, and now he just seems resigned. His eyes skip upward from Treville to Richelieu.

“This is your fault, you know,” he says to the Cardinal. “You had to take him – you couldn’t leave him for me. You’ve ruined him.”

And the most insane part of an insane sequence of events is, Gasteau’s _right_. Not the way he thinks – he’s speaking out of his jealousy over Richelieu’s pretended relationship with Treville – but right nonetheless. Richelieu had overlooked Treville, underestimated him. Schemed against him. Richelieu had planned to have Treville killed. The Cardinal prides himself on his observation and discernment, but he’d looked at this brave, loyal soldier of France and seen only an obstacle, not a pearl of great price. And if Treville ends his days under Gasteau’s sword instead of Milady’s dagger, is the fault any less Richelieu’s own?

“If I were out of the picture,” Richelieu suggests desperately, “he might turn back to you.”

It’s a bid for time. Even as Richelieu tries it he knows, in the back of his mind, that there’s no real point dragging this out. The fight for one more minute’s delay is instinctive, but Richelieu has no real plan. When his invention gives out, Gasteau will kill them both, then the King, and that will be that.

“It’s a nice fantasy,” Gasteau says, “but it doesn’t really matter. He’s betrayed me once already. Once I’m King, there will be plenty of men who will know how to value my love.”

He nods once, to himself, and Richelieu sees his stance settle, becoming balanced. Ready to strike.

Treville coughs, starting to come back to his senses. He tries to push himself up, but his wounded arm won’t bear him. He falls back white and gasping. Richelieu presses a hand against Treville’s wound and tenses, ready to roll them aside, ready to do anything that might help, if he can only think what that might be –

In the background, Gasteau’s men are leaning forward, craning their heads to see, already anticipating their victory.

The report of a musket shatters the air.

Richelieu’s gaze snaps down to Treville, mind reeling in shock. Where had Gasteau gotten the musket? When had he had time to fire it? What had been wrong with his sword? Where is the wound – how bad is it?

He sees nothing. Treville is fine – well, no more wounded than he’d been a minute ago. He’s staring up in astonishment. Richelieu drags his gaze back upwards in time to see Gasteau sway, and sway, and fall.

On Gasteau’s chest, a red stain seeps, slowly.

The sounds of a sudden scuffle pull Richelieu’s attention away from Gasteau, who’s still blinking, his lips moving as if to speak, though no sound comes out. The crowd of Gasteau’s men are milling like a kicked anthill. The ones in front are turning around – the ones behind them are falling. Like Gasteau had.

Treville tries again to stand. Richelieu recalls his wits from where they’d gone begging and helps him, scrambling up himself and getting them both on their feet. Treville’s none too steady. Without thinking about it, Richelieu slings Treville’s unwounded arm over his shoulder and passes a hand around Treville’s waist to help keep him upright.

The Captain of the Musketeers is looking down at Gasteau. Richelieu, following his gaze, thinks that Gasteau says something – but over the sounds of the sudden battle, nothing can be heard. A moment later, Gasteau’s eyes slide closed, and his chest stops rising. Dead.

“Captain Treville!” a new voice cries.

Treville’s attention snaps upwards. From the chaos a figure emerges, a thankfully familiar figure.

“Porthos,” Treville says in relief. Richelieu recognizes him. One of the Musketeers Treville had left behind in Paris, three days ago. Behind him, coming out of the crowd, are more familiar faces. He sees Athos, and Bernajoux, and Cahusac – the latter wounded, but walking. And behind them, pouring down the corridor like divine retribution, what looks like an entire company apiece of Musketeers and Guardsmen.

Reinforcements have arrived.

They’ve won. All unexpectedly, they’ve won. Praise be to God.

“Sorry we’re so late, Captain,” the young Musketeer laughs. “We brought some Guardsmen with us, and they were deuced slow.”

Richelieu bristles instinctively. Then he catches Treville’s eye. Slowly, he relaxes, and hauls in a deep, clean breath.

“Guardsmen move at the speed of God’s will,” he intones, pasting an appropriately grave expression over the relief threatening to bubble to the surface. “They arrive in His time, not in man’s.”

Porthos blinks, taken aback. He looks to Treville, clearly unsure of how to react.

Treville isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at Richelieu.

Together, they begin to laugh.


	4. Chapter 4

It is easy to convince the King to go on ahead back to Paris and leave the cleanup to Richelieu. Gasteau and his men are all dead, but the papers the would-be assassin had carried will not conveniently decompose along with his corpse. Richelieu must sort them, separating out the ones that he can put to other uses from the ones that must be burnt.

Richelieu is back in the study they used as their war-room, where the King had hidden during the fighting. He has the papers spread out over the desk; he’s bent over his task. The maps have already been rolled up and tucked back away in Treville’s map-case. Absently, he hears the stamp of the hooves and the jingle of tack as the King’s entourage sets out back to the capitol.

Some little time later – he’s not exactly sure how long – the door creaks open. Richelieu holds up a preemptive hand. He is nearly done. He must simply… no. There is really no possible use for this one. He sets it in the _destroy_ pile reluctantly, then lets his hand fall and looks up, expecting to see one of his guards.

Instead, the Captain of the King’s Musketeers stands behind him. He’s wearing a fresh uniform, brought from Paris. His arm is neatly bandaged. He stands somewhat stiffly, but the doctor Aramis had had the foresight to bring had been positive in his assurances that Treville will lose none of his skill at sword-work once the wound is healed.

“The King has departed,” Treville says.

“And you’re not with him?” Richelieu raises an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d lead him and his guard to back to Paris yourself, there to bask in the glory of his gratitude.”

“Will there be glory?”

“You held a rundown hunting lodge against a company of ruthless mercenaries for three days, with only a mixed dozen of Musketeers and Red Guards at your command,” Richelieu says. “You single-handedly fought their leader to a standstill, though you were gravely wounded. Yes, I imagine there will be glory, and rewards besides.”

“That is not what I mean and you know it.” Treville bangs the longsuffering door closed behind him. It’s rather irrelevant – there’s no one left inside the lodge but the two of them; Richelieu had instructed their remaining guards to wait outside – but he supposes he can understand why a man in Treville’s precarious position feels the need for extra security.

“I mean to ask,” Treville goes on, “in what way you plan to tell the King about my previous relationship with Gasteau, and whether it would be better for me to step into the woods now and take my musket with me.”

Richelieu looks up sharply, caught in the grip of a sudden anger. Treville’s words conjure up a series of vivid images. Treville pale and resigned, turning his musket barrel on himself. His blood seeping into the ground of the forest. Richelieu explaining to the king that one of Gasteau’s men must have escaped the melee, come upon the Captain unawares.

The idea is infuriating.

“You will do no such thing,” Richelieu says coldly before he can think. Then he catches himself. He can’t think where this loss of control has come from, but it ends now.

This conversation ends now.

“I have no intention of informing the king,” the Cardinal continues, striving for calm. “You may put your mind at ease.”

He expects Treville to look relieved. Instead Treville looks repulsed. “So it’s to be blackmail, is it?” the Captain says, disdain dripping from his every word. “Forget it. I won’t dance to your tune. I’d rather go out behind the lodge right now.”

“I had no such idea,” Richelieu says tightly. “As far as I am concerned the matter is closed.”

“No matter is ever closed with you,” Treville spits. “I tell you, I won’t be blackmailed.”

“And I tell you I have no intention of blackmailing you!”

Treville’s eyes narrow. Richelieu meets his gaze unflinchingly.

“Very well,” Treville says abruptly. “Then you won’t object to an exchange.”

“An exchange of what?”

“Secrets.”

Richelieu blinks. It’s a clever request – very clever. And very ruthless. Unexpected. His Captain is still full of surprises. What secret shall he offer, then?

Treville apparently takes his silence for confusion. “You have my secret,” he goes on. “Give me one of your own. Then we’re in balance. You can’t blackmail me.”

“I’m familiar with the principle,” Richelieu says dryly. “A moment to gather my thoughts, if you please.”

Treville nods.

Richelieu considers. He had, and has, no intention of blackmailing Treville. He is hardly above blackmail, but this – to use this against Treville would be repugnant.

But, of course, Treville has no reason to believe him.

In a way, this is a challenge. The secret Richelieu offers Treville will be used by the Captain to judge him. Offer too great a secret, and it will look like Richelieu really had intended blackmail. Offer too small a secret, and it looks like Richelieu is keeping his options open for blackmail later. An intriguing problem. The two must be exactly in balance. What balances the knowledge of the sexual preferences of the Captain of the King’s Musketeers?

Richelieu smiles.

“You’ve decided?” Treville asks.

“Let us imagine that one of your former lovers and one of my former lovers find themselves in a room together,” Richelieu says delicately. The guards are supposedly well outside, but it never pays to be risky. “The two of them would find that they have something significant in common.”

“And what is that?”

“Their gender.”

Silence. Treville appears to be absorbing this. Richelieu waits.

“You son of a bitch,” Treville says evenly. Richelieu starts. This is not the reaction he was expecting.

Treville’s countenance is suffused with rage. “You bastard – you’re going to just stand there and lie to my face? Over something like this?” The Captain’s hand is closing spasmodically on his sword-hilt. Worse, he doesn’t seem to be aware of it.

Richelieu begins to realize he has badly miscalculated.

Treville is going on. “After what we accomplished together – you still don’t even respect me enough to lie well. You were just – you want to expose me in front of the king that badly, is that it?”

“No – ”

“You weren’t even going to allow me the dignity of a moment alone. Well, you can go rot. I’ll see you in Hell, _your Eminence._ ”

And then, incredibly, Treville turns on his heel, going for the door, his hand already moving from his sword-hilt to his musket.

Richelieu’s control snaps.

His legs are longer than the Captain’s; two quick strides and his palm slaps against the door, preventing Treville from opening it. At least, from opening it easily. Treville could overpower him. But Treville’s hand only spasms on the door-latch, and he turns a gaze on Richelieu that burns with a searing rage.

“Let me go,” he seethes.

“No,” Richelieu says, barely aware of what he is saying. His hand turns the door-lock without conscious intention.

“If you want to take me back to Paris,” Treville snarls, “you’ll have to do it in chains. And I don’t think you can put them on me by yourself.”

Richelieu stares at him. Flushed and furious, Treville is breathtaking. His carriage is erect. His eyes flash. The formal uniform becomes him admirably. And Richelieu knows now that underneath that uniform is a strong body, a clever mind, and a sharp wit.

“There are other kinds of chains,” Richelieu says hoarsely, and bends to capture Treville’s mouth with his own.

Treville’s eyes widen. Richelieu had no expectations of this moment – had never intended to take these actions at all – and so is, paradoxically, unsurprised when Treville seizes him by the shoulders and pulls him in closer. Sandwiched between Richelieu and the door, Treville opens beneath Richelieu’s questing lips, and his hands are hardly more circumspect.

Richelieu has spent his life learning to control himself. His every thought and emotion, measured. His reactions strictly circumscribed. He does nothing without planning. Nothing without intention.

He shoves Treville’s belt aside and sinks to his knees without the slightest pause.

One of Treville’s hands tangles in his hair; the other goes to his lips, where he bites down, muffling his cries. He _is_ noisy. When Richelieu has got him back in Paris, he will take him to the Palais-Cardinal. His private chambers are carefully located in a remote wing. His servants are well-trained and well-paid. Richelieu will spread Treville out on his bed like a buffet, and wring those noises from him over and over again until they are both exhausted. And then he will do it again. And again –

Treville comes with a muffled cry. Richelieu, by contrast, is utterly silent. It is the habit of a lifetime. Clergy are supposed to at least pretend celibacy.

Richelieu rises, wiping his mouth without thinking. Treville stares up at him. Already shorter than the Cardinal, his knees are buckling, and he trembles faintly. He slumps against the door as if he would fall without it.

Richelieu draws Treville away from the door, letting his head fall against Richelieu’s breast. With steady hands the Cardinal straightens the Captain’s uniform so it is presentable again. His own robes, conveniently, conceal all.

Treville steadies himself, takes a step backwards. Richelieu lets him go.

“All right,” Treville says. He has to stop and clear his throat. “I’m – um. I believe you now.”

“I should think so,” Richelieu says. It’s an automatic response. He suspects it’s not quite right for this situation. He casts about for another, making a conscious effort to gentle his tone. “It’s quite all right. I suppose I can understand your suspicion.”

“Yes. Well.” Treville coughs. “I suppose that’s a fair exchange, then. I’ll stay out of your way and you’ll stay out of mine – ”

“Will I?” Richelieu asks sharply. “Is that what you want?” Richelieu’s gaze rakes Treville from head to toe. Had he been mistaken? But no, the signs are all there. The slightly lowered eyes, the way Treville leans slightly forward into Richelieu’s space, the hands slightly out, palms up, offering. Treville’s body isn’t saying they should stay out of each other’s way.

“I thought it’s what you would want,” Treville says after a moment.

“It is not.” Richelieu holds out his own hand, offering. “I find you fascinating,” he admits. “You are not at all what I expected. I find I wish to… continue our acquaintance.”

“I… I think I might like that,” Treville says. “Maybe.” His voice is tinged with disbelief. Richelieu can sympathize. Before riding out from Paris, he had been seriously planning to have the Captain killed for the good of France.

It has been an eventful three days.

“Then perhaps we should agree to meet again,” Richelieu suggests. “To discuss… oh, many things. Gasteau came far too close to killing his Majesty. We owe it to France to put our heads together and be sure this can never happen again.”

“Yes,” Treville says. “Yes, we do.” He takes a deep breath, tugging his cloak into place. “Well. I suppose we had better get back to Paris, then. And the King will be wanting to see us. You’re done here?” he adds, looking at the pile of papers left on the desk.

“Almost,” Richelieu assures him. “Why don’t you go wait outside? I’ll be along in a moment. I just have to light a small fire.”

“Right.” Treville nods, visibly grateful for the escape.

Richelieu waits until the door closes behind the Captain, then picks up the bundle he’s already marked for destruction and moves towards the grate.

It’s the work of the moment to start them burning. As the flames take them, Richelieu takes the opportunity to turn his mind elsewhere, to the new puzzle that awaits him outside.

It seems his earlier plans with regard to the Palais-Cardinal will have to be put on hold. Treville is skittish, wary. He will require careful handling. It’s obvious that, despite their recent shared travails, Treville doesn’t completely trust Richelieu. Richelieu will have to work to win him. It will take time.

That’s all right. He is a very patient man, when there’s something he wants.

It’s changes of fortune like this that keep Richelieu aware of the glory of God. Treville is, against all expectations, a prize worth having.

Richelieu has always enjoyed the process of winning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap for this fic, but there are more in the pipeline... can't just leave them there :) I hope the ending was satisfying!


End file.
